Chapter 39: Monster Hunting Party - Part 4
The battlefield, once a cacophony of violence and death, was suddenly bathed in an intense, blinding red light. The radiance was so overwhelming that even the most battle-hardened soldiers of Omega-7 were forced to shield their eyes, their instincts screaming at them to flee, yet their training anchoring them in place. The light pulsated, throbbing with an almost sentient intensity, as if it were alive, as if it were the heartbeat of some ancient and forgotten deity.
At the epicenter of this luminous explosion stood Lina, or what was once Lina. Inside the blazing light, she felt a surreal calm, as though time had slowed, and the sounds of battle outside had become muffled, distant echoes. And then, as if emerging from the very light itself, a figure appeared before her. It was the same man she had seen in her dreams—tall, imposing, with an aura of power that made the air around him shimmer.
His eyes, pools of endless black, bore into hers with a mixture of sternness and compassion. He did not speak at first; instead, he looked past her, surveying the chaos that raged just beyond the veil of light, the carnage of the battlefield where men and monsters clashed in brutal combat. His gaze was not one of shock or horror, but of weary resignation, as though he had seen this many times before, in many places, in many lives.
Finally, he turned back to Lina, his expression softening, though his voice remained stern. "Do not waste the power of your heritage," he said, his tone commanding yet imbued with a deep sadness. "You must fight with all your strength, with all the fury that burns within you. There is no turning back now."
His words reverberated through her, not just in her ears, but in her very soul. She felt a connection to this man, a bond that transcended time and space, as if they were linked by something far older and more profound than she could understand. He was more than a figure from her dreams—he was a part of her, a manifestation of the power she had yet to fully grasp.
And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the man began to fade, his form dissolving into the red light that surrounded them both. "Remember who you are, and what you are meant to become," he whispered, his voice now barely audible as he vanished completely.
The light began to recede, condensing and contracting, drawing inward as though it were being pulled back into Lina's very being.
As the red light receded, it coalesced around Lina, drawing itself into her body as if being absorbed. The battlefield, once drowned in crimson luminescence, began to return to its shadowed reality. Soldiers, cultists, and monsters alike squinted against the fading glare, their eyes adjusting to the dimmer, blood-soaked forest once more. But when their vision cleared, what they saw left them all rooted in place, paralyzed by awe and terror.
Where Lina had stood, a new figure now dominated the battlefield. Her transformation was nothing short of breathtaking-yet horrifying. Her eyes, which once glowed with a faint, almost benign light, were now blazing stars, red and five-pointed, like the marks of an ancient, vengeful deity. Her hair, once a soft cascade of dark locks, had turned into a vibrant, blood-red mane that flowed around her like a living flame.
But it was the wings—massive, grotesque, and unnervingly beautiful-that drew every gaze.
They had sprouted from her back, not like the feathered wings of angels, but something more primal, more terrifying. They were a blend of flesh and darkness, as if they were extensions of her very soul. The tips of the wings dripped with some unknown substance, black and viscous, that seemed to hiss and evaporate when it touched the ground.
From her back extended an ocean of tentacles-dozens, then hundreds, then thousands-each writhing with a life of its own. These tentacles formed a massive, undulating mass behind her, almost as if they were extensions of her will, waiting for her command to unleash their deadly power.
The mark on her forehead-once a subtle, glowing sigil-now shone brightly for all to see. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, radiating power and authority. It was a symbol, an undeniable proclamation of her transformation, of what she had become-what she had always been destined to become.
One of the Omega-7 operatives, struggling to process what he was seeing, instinctively reached for his tactical camera. His hands were shaking, but he managed to activate it and point it at Lina, capturing the entire scene on film. The camera's lens quivered, struggling to focus on the raw power emanating from her, as if the very essence of what she had become threatened to shatter the device.
Lina slowly rose from the ground, her movements fluid, almost graceful, as if the immense power flowing through her had granted her a new sense of poise and balance. She stood there for a moment, her expression unreadable, as if she were absorbing the reality of her own transformation. And then, from deep within her, a sound began to emerge-a soft, quiet chuckle that gradually grew louder, more intense.
Her laughter echoed through the battlefield, rising to a crescendo of madness and joy. It was a sound that was both terrifying and exhilarating, as if the very soul of the universe had found something to be profoundly amused by. The laughter was so intense, so overpowering, that it sent chills down the spines of everyone who heard it. Even the hardened soldiers of Omega-7, men and women who had faced countless horrors, found themselves shivering with an instinctive fear that they couldn't quite place.
Far off in the distance, the reinforcements from Delta-3,
"The Dragons," were making their way toward the battlefield, their advanced communications equipment picking up Lina's maniacal laughter over the radio.
They reported it back to Mission Command, their voices tinged with a mix of confusion and concern. Whatever was happening at the front lines, it was unlike anything they had ever encountered.
Back on the battlefield, the cultist leader-who had once been so confident, so assured of his victory-now found himself rooted in place, unable to move. When Lina finally turned her gaze toward him, her star-filled eyes locked onto his, he felt a sensation he hadn't felt in years. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.
It was as if a predator far beyond his comprehension had just taken notice of him, and for the first time in his life, he felt the icy grip of terror close around his heart. It wasn't just the raw power she exuded, or the nightmarish appearance she had taken on-it was the way she looked at him. Those eyes, those impossibly red eyes, bore into his very soul, stripping away all his defenses, laying bare his weaknesses, his insecurities, his mortality.
In that moment, the cultist leader realized that Lina no longer saw him as an opponent, or even as a threat. She saw him as prey.
His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee from this impossible being that had once been a mere girl. But his pride, his belief in his own invincibility, held him in place.
His hands trembled as he bit down hard on his tongue, the pain grounding him, forcing him to act. With a roar of defiance, he lunged at Lina, channeling every ounce of his power, his strength, into one final, desperate attack.
But Lina didn't even flinch. She didn't move a muscle. Instead, the sea of tentacles that had erupted from her back sprang to life. They moved with such blinding speed that they were almost invisible, a blur of motion that even the most trained eye couldn't follow. Before the cultist leader could even register what was happening, the tentacles had wrapped around him, binding him in a grip so tight that he couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
He struggled, tried to summon his power, tried to fight back, but it was useless. The tentacles tightened their hold, crushing his bones, compressing his lungs, as they slowly lifted him off the ground. His eyes widened in shock, in horror, as he realized the depth of his mistake.
And then, Lina spoke, her voice calm, measured, and infinitely cold.
"You should have run."
The cultist leader's scream was cut off as the tentacles constricted further, silencing him completely. The battlefield, which had been filled with the sounds of combat, fell into an eerie silence. Every soldier, every cultist, every beast that still stood watched in stunned silence as the leader of the robed men-once so powerful, so unstoppable-was now nothing more than a helpless insect in the grasp of a goddess.
Lina's gaze remained fixed on the cultist leader as she held him there, suspended in the air, as if considering what to do with him. Her grip was firm, but not yet lethal, as if she were savoring the moment, drawing out his suffering.
And then, just as it seemed she might crush him completely, she paused. Something within her shifted, a spark of recognition, of clarity. Her star-filled eyes flickered for a moment, as if some part of her old self was trying to break through the overwhelming tide of power and rage. But whatever it was, it was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming force of the power she now wielded.
The cultist leader, sensing a moment of weakness, tried one last time to break free, to launch an attack, but it was no use. Lina's tentacles tightened once more, and this time, there was no hesitation. There was no mercy.
The cultist leader's body convulsed as the tentacles crushed him completely, the sound of breaking bones echoing through the silent battlefield. And then, with a final, wet snap, the tentacles tore him apart, sending blood and viscera raining down onto the ground below.
Lina stood there, her breathing calm, her expression unreadable, as she watched the remnants of the cultist leader's body fall to the ground in a lifeless heap. The silence that followed was deafening, as every eye on the battlefield turned to her, the new queen of death and destruction.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one dared to even breathe, as if afraid that any sudden movement would draw her attention and seal their fate. But Lina, now fully in control of her new power, merely stood there, her wings folded behind her, the sea of tentacles retreating back into her body.
She turned her gaze toward the remaining cultists, her eyes still glowing with that otherworldly red light. They, too, froze, paralyzed by the sight of her. And then, slowly, she began to walk forward, her footsteps light, almost dainty, as if she were merely taking a stroll through a garden.
But every step she took sent waves of terror through the remaining cultists, who now realized that they were hopelessly outmatched. They had come here believing themselves to be the harbingers of some great, dark power, but now they saw the truth, they were nothing more than insects, crushed beneath the heel of a being far greater, far more terrible, than they could ever have imagined.
As Lina approached the nearest cultist, he fell to his knees, his weapon dropping from his hands as he began to sob, begging for mercy. But Lina didn't stop. She didn't even look at him. She simply kept walking, as if he didn't exist, as if he were already dead.
And in that moment, every cultist on the battlefield knew that they were doomed. There was no escape, no salvation. There was only death.
Lina stood amidst the carnage, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The air was thick with the stench of blood and burning flesh, mingling with the earthy scent of the forest. Her eyes, still glowing with that eerie, otherworldly light, scanned the battlefield for any remaining threats. But there were none. The cultists had been eradicated—every last one of them.
Her wings, those grotesque appendages of flesh and darkness, dripped with the blood of her enemies, and her star-shaped eyes burned with a cold, unforgiving fury. She was a force of nature, unstoppable and terrifying. The members of Omega-7, seasoned soldiers who had faced horrors beyond comprehension, stood frozen in place, their eyes wide with shock and fear as they watched the massacre unfold.
With each step Lina took, the remaining cultists fell to their knees, paralyzed by the overwhelming terror that radiated from her. They didn't even attempt to fight back. They had seen what she was capable of, and they knew they stood no chance. Lina moved through them like a wraith, her tentacles lashing out with brutal efficiency. In mere moments, the battlefield was silent once more, save for the soft rustling of the wind through the trees.
As another cultist fell, Lina turned her gaze toward the members of Omega-7. Her eyes, still glowing with that terrible red light, locked onto each of them in turn. The soldiers, for all their training and discipline, felt a chill run down their spines. This was not the Lina they had known. This was something else entirely—something far more dangerous.
Cain, who had been locked in combat with the monstrous creature, turned his attention to Lina. His usually stoic expression faltered, his eyes widening in recognition as he saw the mark on her forehead. It was as if a long-buried memory had been unearthed, something ancient and primal stirring within him. Without a word, he sprinted toward Lina, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Lina!" he called out, his voice tinged with urgency. But she didn't respond. Her eyes remained cold, distant, as if she were in a trance, consumed by the power coursing through her.
Cain continued to run, his mind racing. The mark, the transformation—he had seen it before, long ago, in another time, another place. It was something that should have been impossible, something that should have remained sealed away. And yet, here it was, manifesting in Lina.
He shouted words in a language that no one else could understand, a language lost to time. The words held power, ancient and arcane, and they resonated with the very fabric of reality. He reached Lina just as she raised her hand, as if preparing to unleash another wave of destruction.
Cain didn't hesitate. He pressed two fingers against the mark on her forehead, and immediately, a blinding blue light erupted from the point of contact. The light was so intense, so overpowering, that it forced everyone on the battlefield to shield their eyes. Even the advanced optics of the Omega-7 helmets couldn't filter out the brilliance, leaving the soldiers momentarily blinded.
The light seemed to pulse, growing brighter and brighter until it enveloped both Cain and Lina. It was as if the very air around them had ignited, burning with an ethereal flame. The ground beneath them trembled, and the trees swayed violently, as if caught in a tempest. For a moment, it felt as if the world itself was on the brink of unraveling.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the light started to fade. Slowly, the brightness diminished, revealing the two figures at its center. Cain, his expression one of grim determination, and Lina, who now lay unconscious at his feet. Her transformation had reversed—her hair had returned to its natural dark color, her eyes had lost their unnatural glow, and the terrifying wings and tentacles had retracted back into her body, leaving no trace of their existence.
Cain knelt beside her, his hand gently brushing her hair away from her face. She looked peaceful now, as if she were merely sleeping, the terrifying power that had consumed her just moments ago now dormant.
The members of Omega-7, still reeling from the shock of what they had witnessed, slowly began to gather around. They exchanged uncertain glances, unsure of what to do next. Cain remained silent, his mind racing as he tried to process what had just happened.
"Damn it," Mendoza muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on Lina's unconscious form. He reached for his radio, his hands still shaking from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Omega-7-1 to Mission Command," he said, his voice strained. "We've got a situation here. SCP-8888-1 has neutralized the hostiles and...turned back to SCP-8888 thanks to SCP-073. We've also got multiple wounded, one critical."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the static crackling ominously before the operator responded. "Acknowledged, Omega-7-1. Medevac and reinforcements are en route. Hold your position."
Mendoza let out a slow breath, his eyes scanning the battlefield. The once ferocious cultists now lay dead or incapacitated, their twisted forms littering the ground. But it wasn't their corpses that drew his attention—it was the state of his team. Several members of Omega-7 were nursing wounds, their faces pale with pain, but they were alive, still standing. It was more than he could have hoped for.
His gaze drifted to Alvarez, who lay a few feet away, his breathing shallow, his face contorted in pain. Mendoza's heart tightened in his chest as he hurried over, kneeling beside his fallen comrade. Alvarez's pulse was weak, barely there, and blood was seeping through the makeshift bandages that had been applied to his wounds.
"Stay with me, Alvarez," Mendoza urged, his voice barely above a whisper. "Help's on the way, you just have to hang in there."
Alvarez's eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused. He managed a weak smile, his lips stained with blood. "Looks like...I won't be cashing in on that leave...after all," he rasped, his voice barely audible.
Mendoza forced a smile, despite the knot in his stomach. "You're going to be fine. Just hang in there."
But even as he said the words, he knew the truth. Alvarez's injuries were severe—too severe for the medics to fix in the field. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and he had to fight to keep his emotions in check. There was no time for mourning, not yet. He needed to stay focused, to keep his team together.
In the distance, the unmistakable sound of rotor blades filled the air, growing louder with each passing second. Mendoza looked up just as the first of the helicopters came into view, its powerful searchlights cutting through the darkened forest. The cavalry had arrived.
The helicopters descended with precision, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris as they touched down. The side doors slid open, and heavily armed soldiers from Delta-3, "The Dragons," disembarked, their weapons at the ready. They moved with the confidence and discipline of a unit that had seen more than its fair share of combat.
The commander of Delta-3, a grizzled veteran with a square jaw and piercing blue eyes, surveyed the scene with a low whistle. "Looks like you guys had one hell of a party," he said, his tone a mix of admiration and concern.
Mendoza nodded grimly, his gaze shifting to the bodies of the fallen cultists. "You could say that."
The Delta-3 commander stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he took in the extent of the carnage. "We heard the laughter over the radio, and we saw...well, what was left of the battlefield on our way in. What the hell happened here?"
Mendoza hesitated, searching for the right words. How could he possibly explain what they had just witnessed? "It's...complicated," he finally said, his voice tight. "But suffice it to say, we encountered something none of us were prepared for."
The Delta-3 commander raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "That so?" He glanced over at Lina, who was still unconscious, now being carefully loaded into a containment unit by a team of Foundation agents. "And what about her? Is she the one who caused all this?"
Mendoza nodded. "She's...part of it. But there's more to it than that. We're dealing with something far beyond what we expected."
The Delta-3 commander folded his arms across his chest, his expression unreadable. "Well, whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn't subtle." He gestured to the nearby soldiers, who were securing the area and rounding up the surviving cultists. "We've got this under control now. You and your team should get those wounds looked at. And I'd suggest taking a moment to debrief and figure out what the hell you're dealing with."
Mendoza exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the past few hours settle heavily on his shoulders. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "We need to regroup."
As the members of Omega-7 were escorted toward the helicopters, Cain lingered near Lina's containment unit, his expression unreadable. The events of the past few minutes played over and over in his mind, the ancient words he had spoken, the light, the mark on Lina's forehead—everything.
He knew there would be questions, and he wasn't sure how many answers he